Musique de le Damne
by Jess J
Summary: Crossover with POTO. As murders begin to pile up in Paris, and rumors of a ghost responsible, the League is sent to investigate, and discover a ghost of their own past.


Author's note: I really, really should not be doing this. I have several WIP stories I haven't even gotten halfway through on, but I have been putting this idea off for so long, my muse finally forced me into writing this, and I decided that I would post it and just say this: I have no clue when I can finish this, but I will finish it. Updates might be few and far between, but they will come. The title means: Music of the Damned. If I got any of the French wrong, I'm very sorry, I was using a computer translator thing cause I'm not too familiar with French. Hope you enjoy and please, please review.

Disclaimer: I do not own ANY of these characters. They belong to their respective owners. There are too many to name. I mean no copyright infringement, I am making no profit, so please, do not sue me.

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MUSIQUE DE LE DAMNE

PROLOGUE: A CHILL IN THE WIND

It was a cold winter night as a small figure walked through the graveyard, slow and timid footsteps filled with a purpose, knowing where to go. It was a young woman, just barely older than a girl, still possessing childlike innocence, childlike naivety. Her eyes, a blue-violet hue, were wide and frightened, but her face was set with determination while a few stray, blond curls fell into her face and were blown around in the wind.

She should not have been alone, but she did not like visiting the cemetery with another present. Her shawl protected her from the soft yet chilly wind blowing around her, her arms holding it firmly around her. Finally her feet stopped, placing her in front of a small grave.

It was not anyone of special importance. It was not anyone of note. Yet for this girl, he had been the most influential person in her life. Until now. Until he had at last sent the one promised. She had come to thank her father.

Thank him for all he had done for her, and for this last, parting gift. It brought tears to her eyes to think this was his last gift to her, and the hot water stung her eyes as the cold wind hit them. But she had to do this.

He deserved it, after all.

He had given up so much for her. So much to see to it her dream, his dream for her, did come true. He had sacrificed and suffered and they had gone through rough times. But he had helped her get farther than she could have hoped for.

But sometimes, she wondered if the price to pay was too heavy.

"I miss you, Papa," she whispered, her voice choked and filled with emotion. "But the Angel has kept me company, as well as Mama Valerius. The Angel is strict and sometimes distant, but he is a good teacher. He has promised to give me the courage and strength and ability to sing on the stage, to be lead. Just as you always told me," she went on, unable to keep herself from falling into conversation with the silent grave.

Her mind recalled the beautiful, though stern, voice of the Angel of Music. She remembered how it was soothing though it spoke firmly, how when that he sang, his voice took to flight, and it was as though God was allowing her Angel to give her a glimpse of Heaven in a song.

The Angel himself was indeed stern and strict, but he comforted her when he sensed the mourning in her soul, and how he praised, her when she tired herself out she was working so hard to improve. He would be simple and short, but he encouraged her so greatly with his direct and brief praises that still held a sliver of instruction in them. He was also helping her to learn what was best for her voice and for her overall health, making certain her voice and body and mind were all in top condition.

Christine was not sure whether to laugh or cringe when she thought of tomorrow, when she would have to tell him she had been out in this cold, completely alone and unable to defend herself. But she was on hollowed ground. And perhaps her Angel already knew and was watching over her.

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The girl was there. Right there. Easy pickings. Defenseless, helpless, little thing. Nobody would hear her scream. Nobody would really mourn her. There would be no real attention drawn, no worrying about police after him.

Jean pulled out his knife, grinning cruelly at his prey. He had seen the pretty thing walking alone, in the night, toward the cemetery. She was lovely child, so sweet, so ripe.

Quietly he began to sneak towards her, creeping behind gravestones and statues, careful his boots didn't crunch on the snow too loudly. But as he got a little closer, he heard the girl talking to herself, talking to the grave she was staring at. She was too caught up in her words to hear him.

Perfect.

Suddenly, hands were around his neck, strong, slender hands with a death grip that knew the art of choking well, making it quick and fierce enough to keep Jean from letting out a hoarse scream. All he could do was struggled, try to pry those hands away, but the fingers held tight, as if they were now a part of his neck that he could not remove. Everything was blurry and fading, and he gasped but no air came.

Not until he took his last, vain gasp before finally going slack, limp and heavy as death ripped him from his existence, did the hands let go.

The owner of those hands, tall and dressed in all black with a cloak, looked as if he was shrouded in darkness itself, and his dark blue eyes glanced at the body with disdain before they looked up, focusing on the young girl.

Her hair glittering from the soft glow of the few lanterns around and moonlight, and he could hear her gentle voice, filled with sorrow and the possibility of tears. She was a small thing, practically a child. Imply visiting her father's grave, unaware that she was being watched by a murderer who had saved her life.

And would now die to protect hers.

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A couple of noble stature watched from a rooftop of a building nearby, looking down at the scene in front of them. They had seen all that had taken place in the cemetery, both with the girl, her would-be killer, and the one that had saved her. They had watched with detached expressions and contempt in their sneers, but there was interest in their eyes.

The female, who appeared slightly older, was paler than the moon, with hair darker than midnight, eyes that were like the Black Forest, the darkest green and darkest brown mingled. She was slender to the point of almost appearing bony, yet her elegance and aura of power made her look almost formidable. Like a noble succubus, who walked amongst men and deceived them with promises of sweet pleasure that hid a tormenting death.

She was dressed like a queen, a beautiful gown that bore her shoulders and arms to the frigid wind, the color almost as pale as her skin, with a purple tint to it. Her hair was pulled back tightly in a braided bun, and her swanlike neck was all but hidden in a beautiful necklace made of pale gold.

Her male companion was as tall as she was, dressed in dark blue suit, almost black, pressed and smooth. He had dark brown hair, though next to the woman's it appeared much lighter, that just reached his ears with a slight wave to it. He had a neatly trimmed beard that framed a handsome and almost boyish face. But his eyes were dark from the natural brown and from the depraved lust.

The two glanced at each other, the shared look of vile satisfaction chilling though no other soul was even aware of their presence, much less the plans they had that would tear at the citizens of Paris. They turned from the cemetery, walking away from two crucial victims.


End file.
